


heart of fire

by kalypsobean



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Flirting, M/M, Sexual Tension, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:22:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2505947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>i am every dream you lost and never found</i><br/>Éomer, after watching Aragorn from afar, finds himself on the receiving end of one last night of freedom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heart of fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monkiainen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monkiainen/gifts).



He is watching, almost preternaturally still and silent; if not for the faint cloud of breath, he would be as a statue, as cold and remote as the ruined stones must once have seemed. Éomer has never been one to put stock in the magic of the elves, but it is in the air, charging along his skin, under his armour, in his chest. It must be known, it must be obvious, that he is drawn to this secret King; yet, his glances go unmet, his words are flat in the air and feel formal, stilted, rustic.

Aragorn rode with his forebears; he would have no use for one such as Éomer, barely old enough to ride at the head of a company and still sometimes unaware of the breadth of his reach.

 

There is much to be done, and Éomer sees to it, in time; there is not a return to the way things were, for events move forward, tossing them all into a war over which they have only the control they wrest from fate. Aragorn does this well, and Éomer follows, a step behind. There is not more than a glance, a word with a careless trace of heat behind it; not because there isn't time, for all take comfort in the small moments, but Aragorn keeps his friends close and his counsel closer still. In battle, Éomer can read his commands from the way he moves; he adjusts without waiting for the words, discarding the chain of command. What's left of his force, of all the men of Rohan, he leads to the left flank; he relies on the flash of light on Andúril's blade for reassurance and his own instinct for the rest, until the ground collapses and the war is won. 

 

Aragorn changes after that, though Éomer would suspect that not many have noticed; the silence is broken by a smile, a touch, and Éomer's faith is rewarded. Still, he takes nothing for himself in the midst of loss and grief and hope; he follows Aragorn through the Houses of Healing with a bowl of water and a towel, giving what comfort he can. There are still no assigned rooms; his pallet is ever between Aragorn and the entryway, and he sleeps with a hand on his sword and an eye on the door. He feels, sometimes, as if he will never sleep untroubled until the world is broken anew and all is turned to darkness. 

"You will be useless to me half-dead from exhaustion, Éomer," Aragorn says. His hand is warm on Éomer's shoulder and for a moment, Éomer has to think to remember what heat is, and how it can be a comfort.

"There are still many who seek to destroy," Éomer says, but Aragorn only laughs. It is quiet, barely more than an exhalation.

"Not tonight, I think," Aragorn says. "Would you like me to help you sleep?"

Éomer has a vision of being cosseted, bathed with a cloth dipped in water and crushed kingsfoil, but Aragorn just lies down behind him; the pallet is wide enough, and if anybody noticed, they have not remarked. "My touch is not unwelcome, I think; you have watched after me for long enough."

This was not expected; Éomer starts at the feel of hands under his breeches, both rough and smooth; he closes his eyes when lips touch his neck. He tries to turn, but Aragorn holds him steady. "You have given enough, Éomer."

"You have given far more," he says, but Aragorn covers his mouth. Éomer can smell sex on Aragorn's hand, and it makes him dizzy.

"Then let me have this, before I cannot." Éomer nods, because there's something just outside his understanding - an urgency, perhaps, desperation; certainly this is a sensation long buried, but it is as welcoming as it is unfamiliar, exciting and unknowably terrifying. 

It becomes less about comfort as Aragorn turns his attention lower, and Éomer has to stifle his cries for fear of waking someone. Aragorn laughs again, sending a shiver forward to where his hands tease and scratch, a subtle contrast to the gentle and moist touches he bestows. Éomer is beyond thought; his belly burns with a new fire, a warmth that erupts from him and seems to delight Aragorn. It turns to heat, as Aragorn shifts behind him, then rises, bringing the embrace back to something secure; that's how Éomer falls to sleep, but not how he wakes.

 

The morning brings light that passes coolly through the windows, as pale and as thin as the tree in the courtyard; it is as if nothing has changed. Aragorn's eyes seem, for a moment, to be locked on his, but then he passes up the steps and his gaze is for all of Gondor, as if he had nothing left for himself.


End file.
